The Phantom Did It
by Persephone999
Summary: Ten peaceful years after Don Juan Triumphant, a young stagehand blunders his way into the lair. When an elaborate scam spirals out of control, will he able to escape suspicion for several terrible crimes? AU because the opera house is repaired.


If you're reading this, it means the last chapter wasn't a total waste of time and effort so thank you.

Disclaimer: Anything recognisable from canon isn't mine.

Chapter 2

Backstage seemed darker than usual as the stagehand shoved Frank along, with only a few winking, half-melted candles for light. Ribbons from a recent performance dangled from the ceiling like entrails from an open wound. Half-lit masks sneered in the dim light, as though they knew more than Frank did. The only break in the silence was the occasional thud behind the backdrop.  
"Eerie back here, innit?" the older of the two men muttered.  
"What do you want, Isaac?"

At the question, the older man looked about conspiratorially, the dim lighting giving his bony features an almost sinister look that wasn't helped by the bruises spotting his almost leper skin like a dalmation. Had the older stagehand knocked up someone's missus, perhaps? Annoyed some burly bloke in the boozer? Tossing a black sack to Frank, the battered man offered no explaination.  
"How many people have the managers fired this month, eh?"  
"Ten or eleven. What happened to your eye?"  
"Keep your nose out. Anyway, they're doing it pretty regularly, ain't they? So 'ow long do you reckon it'll be before they fire us two?" Frank kept his mouth shut for a minute. In terms of job security, he was hanging on by a thread as thick as a lyre string. Considering his hissy fit in the office, It was a miracle the young man hadn't been fired already.  
"I'm listening," he said finally, crossing his arms patiently. Relighting a candle that had flickered out, Isaac stood up straight, waving his arms about to illustrate his plan.  
"There's plenty of stuff lying about that no one'll miss. Think about it, no one's used the lead soprano's room for years. And after the way they brown nosed La Carlotta, there's bound to be something of val-"  
"What!" The word clattered out, echoing through the scenery."Isaac, have you gone completely mad? If we get caught then we'll lose our jobs, and I'm already behind on the rent."  
"Yeah, but we won't get caught, will we?" Isaac sighed theatrically, as though talking to an imbecile. "And think about it- eleven people fired, what makes you think he'll keep us?" The young man considered the question for a second. Would they really keep him after he'd let his tongue slip in the office? Hardly. In fact, they'd probably be glad to be shot of him. "Tell you what, you can go to the costume room and root around in there. There's probably a few furs and whatnot lying about. I'll go to the office and root around there, then we'll meet up, sell everything and split the profit.

At this point, any hope that Isaac might be joking vanished from Frank's mind. Glancing around quickly, he stepped forward, alert for any stray ballerinas who might catch them. Heart pounding against his ribcage like a lunatic against a cell wall, he took a deep, sobering breath. Darkness had wrapped around the room like a fur coat, the silence undisturbed by intruders or managers.  
"Fine. But if we get caught-"  
"We won't. Any questions?"  
"One. What the hell happened?"  
"None of your business," the older man snapped, rubbing a bruise on his arm as though trying to polish it any like a mark on silverware.  
"Do you want my help or not?" Frank heard a sharp hiss, as though someone had punched his friend in the stomach. Unless Isaac was making a big fuss over nothing  
"Fine. I had a debt to pay. Satisfied?" he muttered, glaring at the floor.  
"Who did you lend money from?"  
"None o-"  
"I'll tell the managers if you don't," The words were dirt in Frank's mouth, leaving a sour taste on his tongue. First thieving, now blackmail. What else was he going to stoop to in one night?

Struggling for an answer for a moment, the older man dropped his arms in defeat, cat eyes glaring.

"You're a rat sometimes," he said accusatively, bottom lip stuck out like a child. Would it have killed Frank to leave things be instead of shoving his bloody nose in? "Gunther," Isaac mumbled the name like it would bring bad luck if said loudly, his eyes downcast as though ashamed. An onlooker would have thought Frank was going to have a heart attack on the spot.  
"Gunther! Isaac, have you gone out of you damned mind!"  
"Well, that can be the first thing I sort out when we're rich, can't it?" Isaac snapped, tossing a sack at Frank. "Come on, I need the manpower. I'd ask someone else, but their wives'd nag 'em into telling them where they got the money. Anyway, you're the youngest. You can carry more."

For about half a minute, the only sound slipping through the air was the two men breathing. Weighing up what was being said, Frank looked from side to side as though asking two invisible figures on his shoulders what to do.  
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he finally checked. "We could get fired,"  
"They're throwing us out like skipping stones anyway, mate. Why get thrown out to starve without an insurance policy?" Frank considered this for a moment. Perhaps this wouldn't be such a bad thing- after all, it wasn't like mugging someone or threatening people. Surely, no one would miss a few bits and bobs...  
"Fine," he relented. After all, it wasn't as though he was going to mug some old dear, was it?  
"Knew you'd come 'round," Isaac smirked. "Go to the the costume room. The place is a diamond mine with all the furs and stuff lying about." Before Frank could say another word, his conspirator had vanished into the shadows.

The sun had died away by the time the plan had been agreed to, the moon peeking through a high window and wrapping the building in an eerie glow. Creeping like a burglar, Frank edged down the hall to the costume room, silent and slow as a man going to the gallows.

For the briefest sliver of time, he hesitated. Had that been a footstep echoing from the stage? Admittedly, the noise was gentle, quiet as his own heartbeat. Perhaps he'd imagined it? That had to be it. Who would be up at this time anyway? the young man asked himself, his hand tightening on the door handle as another quiet thud scuttled down the hall. Isaac, he told himself. Chorus girls were tucked up in bed. Composers had went home. The other stagehands would be belting out vulgar songs in the boozer, eyeing up some poor, unlucky barmaid. No one was to catch him.

Gulping at the cold night air, the stagehand stared straight ahead at the wooden door. No going back now. Certain that he was utterly alone, the young man gripped the wooden handle gently and slipped through the door. Had he known what he'd find there, he'd probably have ran straight back out screaming.


End file.
